Thomas of Albion
by Eilean Donan
Summary: A tale of old Albion, where magic still reigns. Romance, adventure, betrayal... Warning: slash. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

A warm summer breeze ruffled the dark curls of the young man waiting patiently at his lord's stirrup, and he pushed a grubby finger under his collar to loosen it, grimacing at the sweaty stickiness on the back of his neck under the damp curls. He'd been waiting there for what seemed ages, his lord's voice droning on as he explained his refusal of an offered treaty to an equally bored herald. The herald had given up any pretence at attention and was leaning on his staff, staring glazedly at an ant's nest his boot had disturbed.

'Thomas.'

The knight's voice scythed through the young man's daydream and he started.

'Sire?'

'If you've finished napping, I'd like you to fetch a scroll from the pack. The one wrapped in blue silk.'

'Yes, sire.' Flushing at the admonishment, Thomas stalked to the mule tethered a few feet away, under the shade, and yanked at the pack.

_And why does the bloody mule get to stand in the shade, where I have to stand in the full sun being blinded by that jaybird's armour?_

'Here, sire,' he said, handing up the scroll and retaking his place. The air stank of horse and male sweat. Flies swarmed in the dusty dung at the side of the road, and somewhere across the fields of gold barley, a dog barked. Sir Josce unwrapped the silk and unrolled the scroll, perusing it carefully.

_You've seen it a hundred times! You wrote it! Look, you idiot, give the bloody scroll to the bloody herald and let's go!_

'Thomas, give this, my answer to his lordship of Estragales, to the herald.'

'Yes, sire.'

'And then fetch my wineskin. I'm parched.'

Gritting his teeth, Thomas performed the tasks without changing expression, for he'd learned the hard way that any expression of displeasure was followed by a beating.

_'If you want to be grumpy, I'll give you something to be grumpy about!' _That was his master's favourite. Sir Josce loved to beat his squires, and Thomas loved not giving him the opportunity. He allowed himself a bleak smile as his back was turned to the knight. And then the smile faded at the memory of what had happened to one unfortunate boy, caught stealing cakes from the kitchen. Little Henry, barely ten summers old, had died from a wound gone sour, a result of Sir Josce's punishment.

_Bastard. If I ever get my inheritance back I'll do for him!_

'The wine, sire,' Thomas said, handing up the wineskin. It would be warm, and taste of leather and spices, and he knew that the water from the stagnant pond nearby would probably be better, but he couldn't help but feel the lack as his tongue began to glue itself like sandpaper to the roof of his mouth.

The herald, having read the scroll's contents, let it snap back into a roll and shoved it into his belt.

'I will deliver this to my lord,' he said with a florid bow.

Sir Josce's horse champed impatiently, beginning to dance. 'See that you do, and also tell him I require his answer in three days at the latest, or he'll be testing the strength of his walls sooner than he thought.' He gathered up his reins and hauled in the grey's head with a vicious jerk of his arm, and the horse stepped sideways with a startled snort, knocking Thomas half off his feet and stepping neatly on his foot. He supressed the cry of pain, for Sir Josce hated any show of weakness.

_'Hurts, does it, boy? You don't know what true pain is! But I'll show you, hah! Drop your breeches.'_

And not only would it hurt to walk, but it would hurt to sit too. Thomas went and got the mule, blinking tears of hate and pain from clear amber eyes gone dark with anger.

He sat, much later, in the cool of the stable scrubbing Sir Josce's saddle. The fine embossed leather tended to get sweat and muck congealed in the intricate designs, and it was Thomas' lot to scrub it out again.

_Had I my due, then someone would be doing this for me,_ he snarled to himself, and dipping his brush in the pail of hot water, attacked the leather with vicious diligence. A good job would earn him certain privileges of freedom. A good job was what Sir Josce expected. And somehow, through constant good jobs, he'd become his lord's favourite squire, so much so that two others had been sent home, no longer needed.

One of Josce's household knights came striding into the stable, his gold-brown hair stuck with stalks of straw and his shirt open at the neck. Thomas smirked, wondering which dairy-maid or laundry-girl would be birthing a child in nine months. Sir Josce was forever complaining they'd be knee-deep in bastards if Sir Edwin didn't stop, but it was a gripe made with fondness and laughter, and Sir Edwin did not stop.

He put out a hand and leaned indolently against the stable door, one foot crossed rakishly over the other.

'Sir Josce calls for you, fair Thomas,' he said, his tone liltingly mocking as he spoke Thomas' name.

'What does he want?'

'How should I know? I suppose he'll tell you when you get there! I'll say though, he didn't look in a good mood.'

Thomas rose, laying the half-clean saddle on its rack, and dusted himself off. 'Best go at once then, hadn't I? If you'll let me pass.'

'No hurry, Tom. No hurry. He can wait a little longer. I'm fascinated how much you've grown. So tall, and three years ago you were a mere scrap of a boy.' Sir Edwin gave a lazy smile, full of promise, one finger laid softly against Thomas' jaw. 'How old are you now, lad?'

Thomas slapped the hand away. 'Eighteen,' he said. 'And I'd like to reach nineteen, which I'm not likely to if I keep Sir Josce waiting. Now please...'

'Please?' Edwin laughed. 'Fine manners, for a squire. I thought maybe Sir Josce had battered your airs and graces out of you, but maybe he was wrong. A blue-blooded squire, that's what he wanted. And maybe that's what _I_ want, right now...'

'Lay one hand on me and I'll geld you!' snarled Thomas. 'Whatever your desires, you won't slake them on me! Now let me pass, or I'll tell Sir Josce it was you delayed me - and this time he won't turn a blind eye!'

Edwin flung up his hands in defeat, looking as if a bee had stung him somewhere delicate. He made no protest when Thomas shoved past him and stamped across the yard to the stairs that would take him up the tower to Sir Josce's chambers, but he did make a mental note to make the lad pay for his refusal - and pay dearly.


	2. Chapter 2

'In three days, we march on Estragales,' said Sir Josce, addressing his knights. They'd assembled in the great hall, the remains of the evening meal on the boards before them. Thomas stood, rigid with annoyance, at his master's elbow, a wine jar in his hand. That hand ached, for he'd been caught pinching pens from the scribes. His pride, he decided, hurt worse. Sir Josce hadn't administered the knuckle-rapping; Sir Edwin had, and Thomas had endured the punishment praying fervently Sir Edwin wouldn't take it upon himself to be creative in his chastisement. He wished he hadn't seen the tell-tale bulge of lust in Edwin's breeches. He also wished it hadn't only been disgust he'd felt.

He shifted the jar to the other hand, flexing his bruised fingers. Sir Edwin had offered to suck them better again, promising he'd enjoy it, and for one miserable moment, Thomas had been tempted to let him. He glared down the hall and caught the knight's eye. Sir Edwin let a sleepy little smile cross his lips.

_Fool! The priests will beat you bloody right after Sir Josce flays your worthless hide, if you allow yourself..._

'Boy, what is wrong with you! Wine, now!' Sir Josce's voice thundered into his brain, and he jumped, dropping his gaze from Edwin's and pouring wine as he was bid. His hand shook. And other parts of him throbbed.

'My apologies, sire,' he murmured.

Sir Josce waved him away. 'I'll put it down to the heat, this time, but see you remain alert from now on. I have no use for a squire who sleeps on his feet.'

'Yes, sire.'

Sir Josce harumphed and turned back to his knights. 'Lord Hart hasn't even afforded us the courtesy of a formal refusal,' he shouted down the hall. 'He's sent no reply at all! I won't stand for such insolence, that is my land the bastard's sitting on, and my land I want back! And we're going to go and get it!'

This was followed by hearty cheers, for the summer had already been long and the knights were growing bored and restless. As a battle speech, it lacked finesse, but nobody cared for finesse. The finer details would be worked out by the warleaders - Sir Josce and his half brother Sir Garas - and all the knights of the castle needed to know was who they were fighting and in which direction to ride.

And all Thomas needed to know was that ahead of him lay weeks of battle, of hard work cleaning tack and weapons and armour - and avoiding the temptations Sir Edwin was bound to lay in his path.

I hope you all bloody lose, he thought, and sloshed more wine into Sir Josce's cup.

A/N: This chapter was going to be longer but formatting problem...argh!


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas pulled taut the tent rope and secured it firmly in the ground with a wooden peg. His back ached, the half-healed bruises on his hand throbbed, and he thought what a pleasant thing it would be to have an enemy to murder, like the knight in whose service he toiled. As it was, all _he_ had to thump was tent pegs. Hundreds of them. He amused himself by pretending each one was Sir Josce. _Thwak, thwak, thwak. Bloody bastard! Thwak!_

'We'll make a decent servant of you yet, I daresay,' said a pleasant, lilting voice. Thomas looked up.

'Sir Edwin,' he said, tonelessly. 'I'd bow, but I'm already bent double.'

'I prefer looking you in the eyes anyway. Stand up.'

Thomas stood, looking dully down at his dust-scuffed boots. His heart thumped painfully, the blood rising to flush his neck and cheeks rosy red. Edwin's eyes sparkled grey-green, and his copper-brown hair was tinged with fiery gold from the sunset. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

'I'm actually not here to tease,' he said. 'Far from it, in fact. I...er...here.' He stuck a hand up his sleeve and fished out half a loaf of barley bread, slightly squashed but still fragrant with yeast and honey. He held it out. 'I know you missed supper. Lord Josce's too hard on you sometimes, I think. But eat it quickly, where he can't see.'

Thomas stuffed the bread down his shirt. 'Thank you.'

'We'll see,' said Sir Edwin, and swaggered off, a softly-whistled tune on his lips.

Thomas bent again to his task. _Thwak, thwak, thwak. Sir Edwin, don't come near me! Thwak, thwak..._

There was little chance of being accosted in Sir Josce's tent, not while he slept across his master's feet. Thomas lay, dozing, listening to the sounds of men still awake round fires, or on watch on the camp's outskirts. Coarse jokes, anecdotes and graphic tales of sexual escapades rent the still night air, and in a tent nearby a knight had clearly found a different means of entertainment, though Sir Josce had banned women from his entourage. Thomas grimaced as heat flooded his loins. Desire faded as quickly as it had come, the sounds from the nearby tent drowned by a half-shouted song the men were singing. Thomas pulled his blanket over his ears with a groan, then flung it off again as he began to sweat.

Near dawn, the call of nature could no longer be ignored, and since the camp was largely silent, Thomas crept outside in search of a bush.

'Now that is a sight I'd pay good money for,' said Sir Edwin. Thomas stiffened, wishing he'd put a shirt on at least. The cool wind of dawn shivered along his spine, and he cupped himself protectively.

'Bugger off,' he said. 'I've made it clear I don't want you.' His roving eyes caught sight of a long branch of hazel lying in the undergrowth. A perfect quarterstaff.

'Buggery isn't what I intend, fair Thomas,' said Edwin. 'Oh, no. I like rather more sophisticated pastimes, and I've seen you on your knees enough times to know how good you look there.'

Thomas knelt, his hand resting on the end of the hazel rod. 'Like this?' he asked, letting a hint of mischief into his voice. Let Edwin think he was going to go along with this. Let Edwin think he had only been playing hard to get. His fingers gripped.

__

One step, and I'll brain you. Go on. One step...

'No, not like that,' said Edwin impatiently. 'And not here. I'm not a fool! In five minutes the whole camp will be rising and I'm not about to get caught with my breeches down with my lord's favourite squire!'

Thomas relaxed a little, but kept his fingers tight about the staff. 'So. What did you have in mind?'

He could sense rather than see Edwin pursing his lips, looking skyward, thinking. 'I'm not sure. Think you I was out here, lying in wait for you, fair Thomas? A quick swive in the bushes? I want more from you.'

Thomas sighed. Half of him wished that a quick swive in the bushes _was_ all Edwin wanted, once, and nothing more. Like his girls. Then it would be over. But he sounded as if he intended a courtship.

A light touch feathered his shoulder and he shivered.

'In time, fair Thomas. In time,' said Edwin, and Thomas heard him walking off, his boots swishing the undergrowth as he went.

He bowed his head in shame.

'Where have you been, lad?' Sir Josce was already up, in shirt and braies, munching on last night's hard cheese and wine. He gestured at Thomas. 'And put some damn clothes on! You might be a fine sight to some, but I'm not Sir Edwin! Get dressed, before I beat you.'

'Yes sire.' How did he know? Or was it just a lucky guess? Thomas donned his clothes, his cheeks burning, and wishing Edwin into the blackest pit of hell. He thought he ought to go there himself. 'What of today, sire? Will you storm the walls?'

Josce chewed ferociously, his brows knitted together in a silvery-black snarl of hair. 'Mayhap I will, boy, but not today. I will give Lord Hart another day's grace, methinks, and then hit him. Why do you care? You have other concerns. My maille needs oiling again.'

__

No it doesn't. If I oil it again, as soon as you put it on it'll slip right off again.

He tied his shirt cords. 'Yes, sire.'

'Good lad. And just to keep you out of trouble, I'll set Sir Edwin to practicing your sword skills with you.'

Thomas huffed, forgetting this time to keep anger from his face. 'Why Sir Edwin?'

'Because I have chosen Sir Edwin, boy,' said Josce belligerently. 'You'll have no objections to Sir Edwin, I am sure! Unless you gainsay me to be awkward?'

'Sir Edwin would like nothing better than to get his hands on my bare skin and use me as if I were a maid,' said Thomas, swallowing hard, and finding he couldn't contemplate any time alone with Sir Edwin. A beating would be better. His lips twisted in disgust, and not just at Sir Edwin. He knew that if he spent any time with Edwin, his refusals would get weaker...

Sir Josce laughed. 'He would, he would,' he chuckled, tucking his thumbs in his belt and grinning at Thomas. 'But no more than he'd like to use anyone young and pretty. He knows if he touches you he'll have me to answer to. Now. No more argument, or by God I'll whip your arse raw.'

Thomas bowed his head. 'Yes, sire,' he said, and this time when he spoke the emotion was gone from his voice.


	4. Chapter 4

'I see staying away from me isn't going to be as easy as you thought,' grinned Edwin. He paused, pushed sweaty copper hair from his forehead and regarded Thomas with sparkling sea-grey eyes. 'Don't worry. I'm not going to touch you where Sir Josce can see me.'

'You're not going to touch me at all,' retorted Thomas, and hefted his blade. Though they were late into the afternoon and the light was already turning to red-gold, the air was still too warm for comfort and he could feel the sweat sliding along his spine like a lover's heated touch. A strand of dark hair flopped into his eyes and he pushed it out impatiently. Edwin's grin widened.

'So why don't you take that shirt off? It's offering you no protection, soaked as it is.'

Thomas glanced down. It was true. His thin linen shirt was soaked, not just from sweat but from the water he'd thrown over himself minutes before. It clung to the rounded contours of his leanly-muscled torso, and left little to the imagination, especially one as developed as Edwin's.

And now Edwin's grin had turned to laughter. 'Tom,' he entreated, one hand extended. 'Put yourself out of your misery! It's too hot for coyness.'

'What do you know of my misery?' Thomas growled. He raised his blade. 'Are you here to teach me sword-craft, or not?'

Edwin shrugged and lifted his own foil. They were using wooden ones, for Sir Josce said he wanted to lose neither knight nor squire to a practice blade. Bruises, he didn't mind.

'You should be a knight,' said Edwin, no longer laughing. 'You're good enough. When will Josce release you and knight you?'

'He won't, and you know this.'

'He might, given sufficient incentive. But never mind that now. Stand and hold!'

Thomas yelped and stepped nimbly out of the way as Edwin lunged, catching the blow on the side of his blade and turning it. His wrist cracked and the yelp turned to a grimace of pain, followed up with a curse. In seconds, Edwin had dropped his foil and grasped Thomas' wrist, turning it gently and tut-tutting in consternation.

Thomas snatched his arm away. 'Nothing an ointment of comfrey won't cure,' he said through his teeth. 'That was a coward's trick.'

'And you'll always face brave and honest men?' sneered Edwin. 'Don't be a fool, Tom. Anyway, men don't call me Adder for nothing.'

'And I thought it was for your poisonous tongue, you bastard.' White heat licked his wrist as he gripped his sword, and looking, he saw the livid bruise already forming.

'It's not broken,' said Edwin. 'At least I hope not. Sir Josce will have my hide if it is.'

'And mine also, for falling for your coward's trick,' said Thomas, but his voice lacked conviction. He let his foil clatter to the dusty ground, unable to hold it. 'I'll not be beaten. He'll leave me here, or turn me over to Lord Hart, if it's broken.'

Sir Josce would not keep a useless squire, even for a few days. Thomas knew well enough that he wouldn't be able to pitch or strike tents one-handed, nor carry maille and weapons, or fetch water, or firewood, or cook. He wouldn't be able to write either, since it was his right hand that was injured and not his left. He looked up at Lord Hart's castle walls, wondering whether Hart kept his prisoners in towers or in dungeons. He didn't fancy either.

He turned at Edwin's touch.

'I won't apologise,' said Edwin. 'I didn't cheat; you weren't fast enough for me, that is all. But I will take some of the rap for you. Come. Let's get you salved and bound, before we face Sir Josce.' His eyes were kind, and if he offered no apology, then it was evident in his eyes.

Thomas nodded.

'Thank you,' he said.

In the end, his fretting over what Sir Josce would say was for nothing. The knight lay dead in his padded gambeson, stewing quietly in the heat with no sign of any wound.

Thomas felt desolate.

'Well at least we don't have to tell him you're useless,' smiled Edwin grimly. 'I need a squire. You'll suit.'

'You have no right to one, since you can barely feed and clothe yourself let alone me as well. And no, I won't suit.'

'You will, unless you want to starve?'

'I stand at risk of doing so anyway,' snapped Thomas. His arm throbbed, and he'd begun a headache as soon as they'd discovered Sir Josce's corpse. He rounded on Edwin. 'And what of the war? What of Lord Hart? We have no leader now...'

'We have Sir Garas.'

'As much use as a feather pickaxe.' Thomas had raided the salve chest and found the comfrey he wanted, applying it to his bruised wrist liberally. Edwin unwound a roll of snowy linen bandage and began to bind Thomas' arm. 'And he's cruel. I'd rather take my chances with Hart than stay with Garas. At least Hart is honourable.'

'How do you know, Tom? He's our enemy.' Edwin tied off the bandage and began hunting through Sir Josce's chest for something to use as a sling. 'It's up to you, but as my squire you have to do as I say.'

'I'm not your squire!'

'And we still have to find out what killed Sir Josce,' Edwin continued, as if Thomas hadn't spoken. 'Poison, do you think?'

Thomas rolled his eyes in exasperation. 'I wasn't here, Edwin. I was out with you, getting my arm broken! How should I know what killed the bastard?'

He stepped back in sudden consternation as Edwin's eyes narrowed at him. He knew that look. He'd seen it many times in men's eyes, when they'd seen in him a way out of their own messes, someone to take the blame. A scapegoat, guilty by dint of his looks, or the fact he'd been dispossessed. Jealousy, revenge, spite. All charges had been laid at his door, and he'd taken a beaten for every one of them.

But not murder.

He shook his head. 'No. No, if you think I had anything to do with it, then you're wrong! I hated Sir Josce, but I'd never stoop to murder! Edwin...please...'

'What the hell's the matter?' Edwin looked puzzled. 'Surely you don't think I'd blame you, Tom? If you wanted to do for Sir Josce you'd stick a knife in him. No. I suspect foul play, but not from you, fair Thomas.'

Thomas felt his knees go weak. He ran his good hand through his ruffled hair and stood patiently for Edwin to bind up his arm close to his chest. He could smell the other man, sweat and lavender and cedar and woodsmoke. Horse and honey and...

...he took the kiss with a sigh of need, melting into softness against Edwin's shoulder with his arm crushed between them, before reality punched into his brain with a force that had him all but retching.

'Get away from me!' he rasped, low and furious, his palm splayed against Edwin's chest, keeping him at arm's length. He could feel the knight's heart pounding hard, in rhythm with his own. Blood pulsed through his veins, pooling where he did not want the sensation.

He swallowed hard.

'Never touch me again! _Never_.'

'I won't make that promise,' replied Edwin, his voice harsh and hoarse. 'And you don't mean it, I know.' Then the mocking laughter was back, the sparkling light of devillry dancing in his clear green-grey eyes. 'Pliant as a maid, you are, fair Thomas of Albion! Not that I want any maid now I've tasted you. Move your things to my tent; I'm going to tell Sir Garas his brother's dead.'


	5. Chapter 5

Thomas sat on a pile of Edwin's belongings, head drooped nearly to his knees. They'd been thrown out of Sir Josce's small army, for some flimsy reason neither really believed. Sir Garas said it was because Sir Edwin had swived his daughter last midsummer and left her big with child; Sir Edwin denied the charge saying he had no idea Sir Garas even had a daughter.

'And anyway, how should I know one maid from another? There've been too many,' he grumbled, as he helped Thomas pack up his things. They weren't taking Josce's belongings; these now belonged to Sir Garas, though Thomas had filched what he could. What he knew wouldn't be missed. The hilt of a fine knife now peeked over the cuff of his left boot, and a linen pouch of saffron nestled against his chest under his shirt, a stain of yellow already forming as he sweated through the spice.

He lifted his head and smiled grimly at Edwin. 'If you don't know one maid from another, then how do you know you didn't get that fat toad's daughter with child?'

'She'd have squealed to her father, and I'd be bereft of two good bollocks,' said Edwin with a laugh. 'And besides, with parents that ugly...' he left the sentence hanging and went to fish in his saddle bag for some bread and cheese. Sir Garas had ordered them out of camp by sunset, and that was still two hours off. No sense in hurrying. They were on enemy land, and it was better to travel by night than be caught out by Lord Hart's warriors. Thomas knew there were bound to be archers hiding in the thickets; he knew Lord Hart. The man was a wood-elf to the core.

'Mind you,' said Edwin, returning with his hands full, 'they're all the same where it matters.'

'Wood elves?' asked Thomas, puzzled.

'What? No, girls, Tom! Although now you mention it, a wood-elf maiden might be a novelty.'

'Hah. And I thought you'd given them up now you've found me.' It was an empty jest, for Thomas had stuck by his earlier warning that Edwin should not come near him with carnal intentions. He stuffed a heel of old, hard bread in his mouth and followed it with a good swig of small beer, chewing furiously.

They set out at dusk, bound for the coast, to all who watched. But five miles from the castle, they turned towards a small village under Hart's fiefdom. Neither had any intention of leaving their land.

In the inn, Edwin turned his pouch out onto the bar.

'Three silver pieces,' he sighed. 'The lot of a penniless knight is to always be penniless. How much for a room?'

'With two beds,' added Thomas.

'Three silver pieces,' said the landlord. He gave them a lazy smile. 'Of course, I'll throw in a good meal of venison stew, and all the ale you want.'

'Very generous,' said Thomas scathingly. 'Keep your ale. If it's your intention to get us drunk then rob us blind, you're out of luck.'

The landlord shrugged. His pale eyes glimmered in the lamplight as they raked him over yet again. 'Where are you from?'

Edwin reached for the coins. 'That's our business,' he said. 'Where's the room? Or we can go elsewhere.'

'Nah, nah, don't be hasty. I was merely curious. Strange folk abroad these days - can't be too careful.'

'I'm all for careful,' retorted Thomas. His arm itched under the bandage, and he could feel the edges of his temper fraying. Tired, and in pain, all he wanted was hot food, and sleep. He looked at Edwin, only marginally better dressed then he. He wished he'd taken Sir Josce's fine fur cloak after all, never mind that Sir Garas would set hounds howling at his heels for it.

He followed Edwin and the landlord up the steep stone steps at the back of the inn, and stood swaying on the threshhold of a small room fragrant with rue and lavender and meadowsweet. Blinking in the faint light, he saw that the floor was covered with rush matting into which these herbs had been woven, releasing their sweet scents whenever they were trodden on. Edwin was arguing furiously with the landlord, negotiating a cheaper price, for the room, though clean, was small and cold. No hangings covered the narrow window, and no shutters either, and a chilly night wind gusted in.

'Shall I leave the light?' Edwin asked as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and the thin blankets on the beds. A small clay oil lamp guttered in the breeze, flickering shadows up the bare limewashed walls like dancing ghouls on All Hallow's.

'Leave the light,' said Thomas. His lids drooped; sleep would come fast.

'My thoughts also,' said Edwin. 'There is one thing though. Where _are_ you from?'

Thomas stiffened, his heart suddenly gone still, then beating furiously. _But what did you think? Someone would ask, sooner or later._

'I didn't think it was any secret,' he said, as nonchalently as he could. 'I thought you knew?'

'No, not me, Tom. I know you're from a good family, but who they are or where they're from, I don't know.'

'I was taken by Sir Josce when I was five, to repay a debt,' said Thomas. 'That much, people know, I think. What they don't know, is that debt was paid when I turned ten years old. But another was made, and unpaid, and Sir Josce kept me as hostage. My own father refused to take me back, or pay my ransom, or settle his debt to Sir Josce, and so...well, now you know.'

There was a moment of silence while Edwin digested this. Then he sat up, his knees drawn up under his chin and his copper-brown hair ruffled where it had lain on his pillow, giving him a slightly comic, rakish look.

He frowned. 'Why?'

'Pure and simple, I'm a threat. My mother died in the first year of my time with Sir Josce, and he married again. She, so I understand, demanded that her own first born son inherit my lands, not me. Since I was far away, a hostage, my father agreed, thinking I need never come back, and indeed wasn't likely to, from what he'd heard of Sir Josce.' He fell silent, remembering the day they'd told him his mother was dead, and he wasn't to return home. It had been thirteen years since he'd seen his lands in the North; he wasn't sure if home was the right term.

'That's harsh,' said Edwin softly. 'Harsher than I'd thought. I'm sorry, Tom.'

Thomas sighed and turned to the wall, his back to Edwin. 'I'll get my due,' he said grimly. 'I'll return there as Lord, or not at all.'

A peddlar had come to breakfast at the inn when Edwin and Thomas went downstairs in the morning. He was a wood-elf, pale-haired and pale-eyed, tall and filthy with mudstains on his green leather jerkin, and blood stains on his striped linen trews. He looked haughtily down his high-bridged nose at the two young travellers, and sniffed.

'Want adventure?'

'If it pays,' grinned Edwin.

'This might. Though what, I can't say. You have heard of my liege, Lord Hart?'

Thomas hid his mirth in his ale-mug. Edwin's eyes sparkled.

'We're not storming the castle and making off with his daughter,' he laughed. 'How many have tried, after all? She's incarcerated behind a thicket of thorns a mile wide, so the tale runs.'

The elf grimaced, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. 'Oh come now. I know you're from Lord Josce's army; have you _seen _a thicket of thorns a mile wide?'

'No.' Thomas snorted into his ale and came up spluttering. 'We haven't. So what's this adventure?'

The elf swept an arm majestically round the room. 'Chop down the thorns and rescue the lady,' he said. His eyebrow climbed higher, this time in amusement, as the silence became deafening.

Edwin was first to speak. He cleared his throat, took a sip of ale, and set his mug down. No longer did his eyes sparkle; now, they glinted dangerously. Thomas' heart thumped.

'Do you mock me?' said Edwin.

The elf leaned forward. 'I asked you if you'd seen the thorns,' he said, his tone as deadly quiet as Edwin's. 'I did not say they weren't there. That was your own assumption.'

The silence stretched taut between them again, and Thomas felt as if he could have drawn his knife and cut the air with it. Dust motes danced gold in the shaft of sunlight slanting through the high window, and the inn's patchwork cat rose, stretched, and settled back to sleep.

Finally, the elf broke the tension, and sat back and laughed.

'I can show you, if it's adventure you want,' he said. 'But one thing won is always one thing lost to regain the balance. Your lives, I can't answer for. I can only show you the way.'

'Typically cryptic, and unhelpful,' grumbled Edwin. 'If this is a trap of Lord Hart's...'

'No trap,' said the elf. 'Only...an adventure. An opportunity. Who know what may be won?' He looked thoughtfully over the rim of his mug at Thomas, his eyes deep and knowing. Thomas refused to squirm, though the urge to do so was strong.

He drained his mug and set it down with a decisive click.

'Count me in,' he said.


	6. Chapter 6

The elf smiled.

'You're braver than you look. And maybe you'll succeed where others have failed,' he said. he narrowed his eyes at Thomas. 'Where are you from?'

'The Northlands,' Thomas answered. He matched the elf stare for stare. 'Caer Goch, on the borders of Elmet. Is that enough information for you, or do you wish to know the colour of my braies as well?'

The elf shrugged, breaking their eye contact and turning to Edwin. 'Touchy, isn't he? How did a highborn knight end up with a prickly boy like this?'

'Your name, sir, what is it,' said Edwin stiffly. Thomas threw him a grateful look. He'd been wondering the same thing himself, feeling his temper beginning to rise at the elf's supercilious attitude.

'I am Henwyn,' said the elf, rummaging through a battered leather satchel. He drew out a barley loaf and tore a chunk off it, handing half to Thomas and half to Edwin, ignoring the landlord's indignant growl at the consumption of food not bought from him. 'You charge too much,' Henwyn told him. He stowed the remainder of the loaf back in the bag and stalked out of the inn, leaving the two young men staring in bewilderment at their rations.

Thomas shoved his down his shirt.

'Might need it later,' he said with a shrug.

'You think? I doubt we'll need any food ever again, if we go with that madman! You're out of your head, Tom.'

Thomas rolled his eyes, his lips curving upwards in a smile. Something wild was prowling through him, padding silently through the closed-off silent places of his soul and sniffing in the nooks and crannies and making him want to throw his head back and howl at the wind.

'You don't have to come,' he said. 'Follow whatever path you wish but don't turn me from mine.' He drained the last of his ale and slapped the tankard back on the counter. His grin held a hint of wildness, his eyes flashed at the promise of adventure. Here, here was his chance. He inclined his head to Edwin, and went out of the inn after the elf.

A little ahead of him in the road, Henwyn turned. A gust of wind crested the rise and blew a skirl of last winter's leaves around his ankles as he tapped his staff on the ground. A breath of strange mists reached Thomas' nostrils, and he fancied he could hear the harps of the Otherworld in that wind.

He started forward.

'I have no intention of coming back,' he muttered, and strode up the path towards the elf, barely aware of Edwin behind him with a strange look in his eyes.

They walked for what seemed years, the mists swirling up around them to shroud them in a cloak of silvery green. Thomas did not know if his feet touched the ground, and if they did, he did not know in which land that ground lay.

_A dream, no more. I will wake, and I will be back in Sir Josce's tent trying to avoid Sir Edwin. A dream. Nothing more._

He reached a hand out for Edwin.

'Are you there?'

'Here, Tom,' came the knight's voice. 'Right behind you. And I still think you're insane.'

Thomas gripped a handful of soft wool, Edwin's cloak. Dewdrops clung to it, mistdrops of diamond and pearl. He knew about such things, and took one, carefully sliding it from his finger into his pouch.

And then they stepped out of the mist onto a plain of golden cottongrass, jewelled here and there with the ruby poppies and sapphire cornflowers common to all cornfields. In the distance white towers glittered in the sun, pennants of grass green silk fluttering and snapping in the wind. And beyond that was the White Sea, though it was not white, but a deep azure speckled with silver.

Henwyn appeared from the mists, bloodied to his knees.

'So you see beauty, do you, in the distance? Look closer to where you are.'

Thomas looked down.

'I've seen blood before,' he said, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. His feet were slick and red, the blood clotting brown on the surface, still sticky and bright below. He raised his knee.

'And I've seen bones before.'

'Your eyes say you have never seen such horror.'

Thomas wrenched them away from the ground, and fixed his gaze on the castle on the horizon. Henwyn smiled a slow, wicked smile.

'You're on your own,' he said. 'I cannot help you on this quest. And neither can your friend, for he doesn't have the same kind of mind you do.'

Thomas looked round. 'So where is he?'

'I sent him back to your land.'

_He didn't want to come anyway. I knew from the first I would go alone._

But his heart told him something different. He looked in despair at his feet.


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas loosened the knife in his boot, and checked the blade of his penknife. He wished for a sword, but as a squire he had no other weapons.

He lifted one foot from the sticky mess of blood, and began the walk toward the castle. To his surprise, his feet encountered not blood, but soft dry grass, deep and springy, firm earth beneath. No blood, no bones.

He looked down.

_Is this a trick? I see blood! I feel pure land._

_Thomas, don't lose your head. It's illusion! Only illusion. And by it I know where I am._

The sun began the long descent to the sea, creeping fingers of deep gold over the land and throwing the castle into dark silhouette. The sea snarled and bit at the shore. And Thomas walked, never allowing his eyes to drop from his goal, never allowing them to light on the ground where he trod.


	8. Chapter 8

Out on the white sea a white ship sailed, slender and sleek, with her prow held high and arrogant as she skipped the waves. A man stood in the prow, his long black hair streaming behind him like a veil of fine silk and his head up to the wind, though a closer look would have revealed his knuckles white with fear as they gripped the ship's sides and a greenish tinge to his high-nosed, sharp-boned face.

She'd battled through the storm valiantly, her timbers creaking and heaving and crusted with salt. The helmsman had ridden them straight through and now they skimmed along the coast, purple skies behind them and silver-gold ones before. Loril slid his way over the deck to stand beside the helmsman.

"How long?" he asked with chattering teeth. He'd pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders against the freezing winter winds, and still shivered uncontrollably. He'd begun to think he should have waited until spring after all. It wasn't really all that far away.

"Half a day," was the answer from the pale-haired mariner, accompanied by a shrug of strong, blue-tattooed shoulders. He steered with one hand on the tiller and not the two anybody else would have needed, and he'd turned his face to the wind, his head uncovered and bare to the elements. "The storm's behind us now so we should have an easy ride – unless you want me to take her along the Sound?"

_Madmen ! All of them, mad!_ "No, no," said Loril, "I'm eager to meet my new wife in one piece, thank you."

The helmsman chuckled wickedly, and Loril hurried back to his cabin below, vowing to remain on land until spring came again. One journey like that was quite enough, though he was fairly sure that as soon as he disembarked, the ship would indeed be run out along the Sound, to "blow the cobwebs out of her rigging", as the captain would be bound to say. The hard-boiled and rough-mannered seafarers seemed to enjoy seeking out the worst channels and then riding them, winning bets that most people would have known better than to place._The queen should tax their winnings_, he thought grimly, but knowing full well that would only encourage the sport as more trips were made and more bets won to compensate for the taxes taken from them. He sighed and scrambled into his bunk, feeling sick again.

The lamp swung above him, a filigree pattern of light and shadow flickering on the bare walls of his cabin as the ship lurched and leaped. Shapes of dragons and fell beasts, of spring flowers and lady's lace. Loril closed his eyes.

_A dream. All I want, a dream. Vaihar, bring me sleep and respite from this nightmare!_

The captain shook him awake.

'My lord, we've docked at Caer Tor,' he said, and Loril rolled stiffly out of his bunk.

'Already? But I thought we were hours away still.'

'No, my lord. You've been asleep longer than you think, that is all.'

Loril gripped the doorjamb, still feeling sick. He'd tried to emulate the rolling gait of the sailors, but his knees would lock and go weak, and he'd have to cling to something, or fall. 'Very well,' he said, feeling the perspiration of sickness slick his brow. He wiped it on his sleeve and took a deep, rather shaky breath. 'Run out my banners. Let's get this over with.'

Caer Tor surprised him, and so did the princess Alena Caladwen. He'd been half-prepared for a monster, so eager had she been to be married without waiting for spring, but to his delight he found her beautiful. It was true that her hair was not a colour he had any word for in his mother's language, being neither brown nor golden, and the colour of her eyes would not have inspired any of his court bards, but the smile she gave him dazzled him to his toes and made him think that perhaps the awful sea-trip was worth it. She came forward with her small white hands outstretched, and curtseyed to him.

"Welcome to my land, my lord," she said. Her voice was light and silvery, and he smiled and took her hands in his.

"The honour is mine, and the pleasure too," he said courteously, his eyes fixed on hers as if caught in a dream.


	9. Chapter 9

Thomas took off his boots and hesitated, unsure of the white froth sidling up the shore to lick his toes. It _looked_ innocent enough, but so had the ground, at first. He half expected to see the water turn red, or the bleached bones of an army drowned beneath the waves. What he wanted was to feel cool water on his weary and blistered toes; the walk had been longer than it had looked.

He turned as footsteps sounded behind him, a slight crunching noise of soft boots in...sand. Thomas froze. _I stand on sand! Not bones. Yet I hear the crunch of bones._

"Good day,' he said, inclining his head to the stranger. He swallowed hard. She was beautiful. He had never imagined such beauty, immersed as he was in the daily life of a military garrison, with its dirt and dust and jaded whores old before their time. Even Sir Edwin's golden good looks would be eclipsed by the woman who stood before him with her boots of butter-coloured leather planted wide in the sand.

'And good day to you,' she returned in a voice like silver bells. She wore a short kirtle of grass green silk, unadorned save for a belt of thin silver maille criss-crossed about her slender waist, separating her breasts and thrusting them aggressively forward. 'Do you know who I am?'

_I can guess_.

'No,' he said.

She laughed, green eyes sparkling with merriment at his expense. 'I'm the Queen of Elfland, and I know you, Thomas of Albion. Henwyn brought you. But the Princess Alena Caladwen is betrothed to another; my son. She is not for you, fair Thomas.'

Thomas shrugged, and shoved his hands in his belt. Now he understood that the thumping of his heart was nothing to do with her beauty, for it wasn't lust he felt after all. He wished he hadn't had to come alone.

The Queen narrowed her eyes. 'Did you leave your manners behind you, Thomas? Or your wits? I know why you're here, and I say, you shall fail!'

Thomas flung up his hand as she put hers out, one finger extended, to touch his forehead. 'If you know why I am here then I need say nothing!' he croaked. 'Do not..._oh_!'

The Queen looked down, and picked up the small green frog from where a young man had stood, only seconds before.

She held him up to her face, and smiled.

'A new servant,' she chuckled. 'Seven years, fair Thomas; you will be mine for seven years. After that...well we'll see if you get rescued. Seriously, I doubt it.'

And he found himself tipped unceremoniously into her pouch, to rattle about among gold coins and chips of diamond.


	10. Chapter 10

**For Strad. Thanks for the reviews! Updates as fast as I can ;)**

* * *

Edwin took up the soft leather pouch and hefted it. It was heavy; he opened the neck a little and peered inside. The soft yellow of gold gleamed back at him, alluring, seductive. He tucked the pouch inside his tunic.

'My lord,' he murmured, bowing to the man who sat before him.

Lord Hart's thin lips curled in a smile, an answering flicker of amusement lighting for a moment in his eyes.

'The lad is safe?'

'He's in Elfland,' replied Edwin. 'As to its safety, I cannot vouch. That's your domain. My lord.'

'You have done well,' said Lord Hart. He rose. 'Very well. There is a place here with me, if you wish to take it.'

Edwin didn't. Dealing with Lord Hart had already wound his nerves up so tight he thought they'd snap at any moment, and he wished heartily to be away, far away. He'd done as he'd been asked and taken Thomas safely away from Estragales, but why Lord Hart should want that done, he didn't know. And asking got him nowhere. Lord Hart didn't answer questions if he didn't feel like it, and certainly not just because he was asked. Edwin felt helpless, uncertain. He'd sworn to make Thomas pay for his rejections, but that resolve had barely lasted more than a few hours.

_Who is he?_ he asked himself for the umpteenth time, as he let himself be escorted out of Lord Hart's presence by two woodelves, both grim-faced and silent, though their eyes sparkled with wickedness. _And why is Lord Hart so damn concerned for his safety?_

The heavy iron-studded oak door of Hart's castle slammed shut behind him, and he stood in the dust of the road. A tang of ice in the wind whistling over the distant hills reminded him that autumn was fast approaching, with winter cold on its heels. He closed his hand over the bulk of the pouch in his tunic. What need of errant lovers when you had gold enough to buy furs to warm your bed? But the thought didn't comfort him, and with a heavy sigh, he began the long walk back to Sir Garas' army.

_I could have stayed with Hart. I should have done. Likely Sir Garas will turn me away again, or worse. _Did Sir Garas know about Thomas? Had Sir Josce known? Too late to ask. His boot turned on a jagged rock and he stumbled sideways with a curse of pain. Walking was not the rightful lot of a knight. Maybe some of that gold would buy a horse.

Henwyn found him several miles hence, waiting by the road with his hands curled around a stout oak staff. The elf's hood was up, but Edwin knew the set of those shoulders and the man's long legs, stretched out into the road.

'What now?' he snapped.

Henwyn rose. 'What now? Oh, the usual. Skulduggery in Elfland. But that is not your concern.' He dusted the back of his cloak with one hand, shaking loose several insects that had settled in to wait with him.

Edwin glared. 'Explain.'

'Why should I? You have Lord Hart's gold, you have his favour. You delivered Thomas into safety. The affairs of Elfland are nothing here, none of anyone's business...'

Edwin snatched a handful of the elf's tunic and hauled him in close, nose to nose. 'I said, _explain_! If Tom's in danger, I want to know!'

'Oh, he's fine,' said Henwyn, picking off Edwin's fingers with a grip of steel. Edwin let go. 'But if Lord Hart discovers that your Tom has run into the Queen, he might revoke that purse of gold, his favour, and your right to live.' His eyes gleamed with wickedness as they assessed Edwin. 'I believe your remit was to deliver Thomas to safety? Yet what happened? You abandoned him in a strange land.'

Edwin gaped, unable to make his legs move as Henwyn strode down the track with a jaunty whistle on his lips. His heart thumped painfully, and he recognised the emotion. _Panic. Don't panic! What he says is a lie, and even if true..._

He hurried to catch up with the elf. 'Even if true, how could I have prevented it? I was...you sent me away almost before we stepped out of the mists! You said...' he paused, hawking dust and spitting viciously into the road at Henwyn's feet, 'you told me he was safe, but that no-one without elven blood could pass into Elfland!'

Henwyn nodded. 'That's true.'

'So what has happened to Tom?'

'He met the Queen. I told you,' said Henwyn with the patience of someone trying to explain a difficult concept to a child. He slanted a smile at Edwin. 'She won't hurt him. As such.'

He resumed his ground-eating stride, and again Edwin had to half-run to keep up with him. Sometime in the last few moments he'd started a headache, and his skull thundered painfully. His mouth was dry, dry as dust. _Ye Gods, why did I never feel like this before?_

_Too many maids_, said his more practical, less romantic side. _And none of them Tom._

'From what you say, he's in danger of some sort,' he growled, sidling up alongside Henwyn. 'And so I need to help him. I believe I am all he has.'

Henwyn shrugged. 'He has Lord Hart,' he said. 'I assure you, the Queen will not hurt him. Likely she will use him as a gaming-piece.' He stopped, and turned to consider Edwin thoughtfully, his long fingers curling tight about his staff. 'Thomas of Albion is more than you think,' he said finally.

'And more than_ you _think also,' snarled Edwin. 'I need to get to him. _You,_ you stinking whoreson, will show me how.'


	11. Chapter 11

Thomas lay back among the silk cushions and velvet bolsters of his new bedchamber and flung his arm across his eyes with a groan. Two days had passed since the Queen had brought him there, and some of that time had been spent learning several vital lessons she decided he needed to be taught. And some of that time had been spent as a frog. Even now, his body was valiantly trying to re-accustom itself to human limbs and not amphibian. A dragon-fly, its wings iridescent blue and green and violet, hovered in through the tall arched window, and Thomas fought the urge to flick his tongue out and devour it.

Seven years, she'd said. Seven years of service to a woman whose whims were unpredictable and impossible to follow. If he minded his manners and treated her as any courtly knight would, she'd declare she wanted roughness and churlishness. If he gave her that, she'd only berate him for his lack of chivalry and finesse. If he wanted her, she hated it. If he lacked lust, she beat him. He was tired of it.

'Get me wine,' he said brusquely to the servant waiting quietly by the door. 'Yellow-gold, and sweetened with honey.'

The elf slipped out. Thomas raised himself to a sitting position, lowered his head to his hands, and groaned.

'Your wine, sire,' said a soft voice near his elbow, and he looked up, startled. He'd never get used to how the elves seemed to be able to come and go at speed, in silence. Fluid grace, deadly and unforgiving. Incandescent beauty, but inside an all-encompasing darkness. He shuddered.

'Get out,' he rasped, taking the wine. The servant retreated as far as the door, and became almost part of it, barely visible in the shadows.

The Queen came for him before he'd drunk the jug dry, as silently as her servant had done. She was dressed in a long gown of softly-draping grass-green silk, gossamer fine with tones of violet and blue in it. He thought of the dragonfly. Around her waist was a belt of coiled gold braid, dripping with emeralds. Her eyes gleamed silver in the dying sun.

She put her hands on her hips. 'What is it you want, fair Thomas?'

Her voice, silky and dark like wine, curled around the sensitive places of his body. All resolve to resist her fled. All determination to defy her vanished. Her eyes lingered over him, from the feathery dark tips of his hair to the jewelled slippers on his feet, and his stomach fluttered with a fire that crawled inexorably to his loins.

He looked away.

'What was once mine,' he said, though he had difficulty remembering what that was. _Albion_, said a stern voice in his head. _Don't forget._ He wrenched his head back round, meeting her gaze. 'Albion. And my right to live as I should be, not in service to any man or woman, whomsoever they may be.'

'But you would have servants for yourself, fair Thomas,' she said. She perched on the edge of his bed and brushed a lock of his hair from his jaw. 'Do you think they would enjoy servitude to a lord who could kill with a thought, if only he knew how? Ah, but perhaps you do know that, fair Thomas.'

She rose again and paced the room, the roll of her hips hypnotic. He watched from heavy-lidded eyes and ignored what his body was telling him. He didn't think he could stand up to another climax given by her; he always felt far more drained than he thought he should. He barely had the energy to sit up, let alone tumble her for the fifth time that day.

'I don't know anything of what you speak,' he muttered. Sleep would be welcome. 'But to kill with a thought...'

_I'd start with you, bitch._ The thought stabbed him; a laugh threatened to burble out of him but he held on to his composure.

She smiled. 'Among other things. Not just to kill. To command. To enthrall. To _rule_. How would you like that?'

'I've seen what happens to rulers,' he replied lazily. 'That's not to my taste. All I want is what's mine.'

She had a knife at his throat before he saw her move. 'What's yours is to rule! The hearts of men and women and children, the soul of the land!'

'Albion, yes.' He pushed the knife away, his consciousness fuzzing at the edges. She smelled of the air, of the forests. _How can I hold against this?_ 'So let me go.'

But she wouldn't. Not for seven years. That, she said, was time enough. He would learn what he had to, in seven years.


	12. Chapter 12

Loril, walking round a corner in the path, nearly collided with the gardener, hell-bent on burning holes in his shoes from the speed he was going at. A look of pure fury crossed the man's face before he realised who it was he had nearly knocked over. With an effort he composed himself.

'My lord,' he ground out through his teeth, his cheeks scarlet and his chest heaving. His manners remembered, he promptly forgot them and made to brush past the prince and continue on his journey.

Loril put his hand out. It connected with the gardener's chest, and pushed him back.

'Where are you going? And why the hurry?'

'_Some_one,' the gardener scowled, 'has let the dogs into the herb bed. Again! When I catch them, I'm going to...'

'It was me,' interrupted Loril. 'The dogs are mine. I had no idea there were areas of the garden forbidden to them.'

'Well there are.' The elf's tone was blunt, and the flash of anger in his eyes hadn't diminished. He started forward again.

'No, no,' said Loril. 'You go when I say, not before.'

'My lord.'

'And you have your culprit now, so what need to continue on the path? What will you do to me?'

'A whipping is in my mind,' said the gardener, and to Loril's delight a spark of humour joined the anger in his eyes. Dark eyes. Peat-brown, with a hint of russet-gold in them. Hair to match, the ends feathering against his jaw and down to his collar. Loril thought the slightly-too-thin lips would look better curved in a smile instead of an angry gash across the pale, square face, and the crease between the brows ought to be ironed out, but overall he approved.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Darach.' was the reply. No elaboration, no clues to his ancestry. Loril decided that could be got in time, knowing that certain of the hill-dwellers, as he believed this man to be, hated giving anything away. Names were sacred. History was even more jealously garded.

Darach folded his arms. 'I can't whip the prince,' he said. 'So no point in hanging about here. Just keep your dogs off my garden in future.'

'I can't promise that. Dogs will be dogs.'

'Then I'll whip them. And you can explain to the princess where the herbs are for her bathwater. Because _I'm_ not!'

This time when he pushed past, Loril let him go.

_Darach. Son of the oak._ He looked like a sapling, green and brown and strong, in a slender sort of way. Tall, without giving the impression that he was, and probably broader than he looked too. _And his manners. Deplorable. I ought to punish him._

He reached up and plucked a rose from the vine trailing above his head, and inhaled its delicate scent. Doubtless the furious and arrogant Darach had planted the flower. Loril allowed himself a moment of imagining the gardener's long, strong fingers carefully tying back the trailing stems, clipping dead heads, nurturing buds.

He tucked the rose into his coat lacings and strolled on, a strange smile playing about his lips.

The Queen's sharp eyes didn't miss anything.

'You've been married several weeks, Loril,' she said severely. 'I would expect my daughter to be with child by now. What under the seven stars have you been doing?'

A pert retort fought for first place with a more diplomatic answer. After a moment's struggle against the threatening mirth, Loril decided not to say anything. The Queen huffed.

'Mind you, I know it takes a little while for young men to adjust,' she said, her eyes narrowed and shrewd. 'Especially if they've been sampling certain delights in places other than the marriage bed.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Yes, you do. Where did you get that rose?'

'The bush.' Now, his lips would not stay in the straight line he tried to put them in. Laughter wouldn't stay contained forever. Desperately, he looked at the door, wondering how he could make his escape without annoying his mother-in-law. He knew her temper, though thankfully not first hand, only from tales.

He'd heard other things too. From her pocket came a muffled croak, its tones imbued with indignation and reproach.

'What's that?'

'My latest servant,' she said with a shrug. 'His name's Thomas of Albion. And you're to stay away from him.'

It was his turn to shrug. 'I have better things to do than poke about your pockets, mother,' he said cheekily.

'Yes, like getting my daughter pregnant!'

'Like letting my dogs in amongst the thyme,' he contradicted, and seeing his escape, rose. 'They should be out now, so if you'll excuse me...'

He didn't wait to find out if he was excused or not. _One day I'll be king of this land, so why not start behaving like one now?_

He found Darach in the thyme beds, repairing the damage the dogs had done earlier. Loril approached, two red-and-white hounds sniffing at his heels with their tongues hanging out.

'Get them out of here,' said Darach without looking up. Loril was impressed.

'They need to _go_.'

'There's a meadow, a seashore, and a wood. Take them there. Don't plague my herb beds.'

'I'm not plaguing your herb beds, I'm plaguing you. Stand up.'

Darach rose slowly to his feet, his autumnal eyes wary. 'Yes?'

'Yes what?'

'My lord. Yes, my lord.'

Loril flashed a grin, enjoying himself, and spoke two curt words to the dogs. They dropped to their haunches, tongues still lolling, and watched Darach impassively. Darach folded his arms and glared at them.

'They're a menace,' he added, omitting any formal address once again.

'They're good for hunting stag,' said Loril. 'Do you have experience of hunting?'

'Of course.'

'Then come with me. It's been a while since I hunted, and I know there is good game in those woods. First thing, tomorrow.'

Darach stared, unsure whether to distrust the prince or not. Loril seemed about his own age, maybe younger, it was hard to tell. There was mirth in his eyes, sparkling like sun on the sea, and he didn't seem inclined to throw his royal weight about with mere gardeners. He did wonder what would happen if he refused the prince his company on the hunt, but he knew he'd never do that. Even if he did suspect he might be in the market for a long-handled spoon, the regret of not going would haunt him forever.

_Too curious by half. And what do they say about curiosity? Ah, best hang me for a sheep as well as a lamb...or some such._

'What?'

Loril's voice jerked him out of his reverie and he unfolded his arms to stick his hands in his belt.

'You haven't heard a word of that have you? I said, I will bring you a knife and a leather jerkin. You might need it. Not just stags in the woods, you know. 'Til tomorrow, then.'

Darach, bemused, bowed as Loril turned on his heel with another of his dazzling smiles, and strode away.

Two red-and-white hounds wagged their tales and grinned up at him.

'Be gone!' he growled, and let a secretive smile soften his features as they did as he bade them.


	13. Chapter 13

There was a legend, said the story-teller, of a crown, a dispossessed prince, and a bloody war that lasted one hundred years. The land was reduced to a burning ruin, the hopes of the people to bloodied rags. And all for the sake of possession._ Power_.

But, said the story-teller, that was thousands of years ago.

Loril frowned into the branches of the old oak. Its canopy seemed large enough to encompass half the wood, its leaves green and gold like a young maid's dress, its bark as brown and gnarled as an old sailor's limbs. A prickling along his spine told him that though he'd come to the oak alone, he was no longer so.

_Seven roses redder than blood, seven silken shirts as well, seven names I give to you, but I want your ring in return._

'You haven't come here to hunt,' said Darach. He'd come silently through the forest, his footfalls softer than a breath of air.

'I need your help,' said Loril. He turned, hesitant, his anxiety written on his face. 'If you will.'

The gardener shrugged. 'If I _can_.'

'So, walk a little further with me and I will show you something.'

The legend, the story-teller had said, had been embellished and embroidered, and it was impossible to tell what was truth and what was fantasy, but that, he said with a smile and a sad shake of his head, was the nature of legends.

But Loril, when he parted the fronds of fern that concealed the cave behind the waterfall, knew truth from lies.

_Seven steeds white as snow, seven swans on the silent lake..._

Behind him, Darach coughed nervously. 'I warn you, I will be missed,' he said with a little laugh.

'By the Queen? Don't worry, I have no intention of killing you. Or allowing you to be killed by others, if I can prevent it. And I wouldn't underestimate my ability to do that.'

'Oh. Good.'

Inside the cave the light faded rapidly, despite the dappled, sparkling sunlight that filtered through the waterfall. Though the cave mouth was wide, the light penetrated only a few feet into the damp, rocky interior, and Loril was forced to resort to magic. Breathing on his palm, he held it up in front of him and muttered a few words.

'Ah, you're from the old tribes,' said Darach, his eyes widening at the sight of the pale orb of faintly yellow light that floated a few inches above Loril's palm. Its light was weak, but enough. Loril said nothing, but beckoned him further into the cave.

* * *

Edwin sank his feet into a bowl of hot salted water and ground his teeth to keep from screaming like a girl. Blisters, sores - his feet were little more than bloodied strips of flesh and bone, and his boots had been consigned to the fire. What was left of them.

Opposite him, Henwyn cradled a tankard of dark ale, his own boots scarcely even dusty. Edwin decided, after half a day of being unsure, that he hated the elf.

'How far do you think you'd have to walk to get to Thomas, in Elfland?' asked Henwyn. 'How does forty days through red blood, to your knee, sound? And here you are, with your feet in tatters, and your head in your hands, after a mere twenty miles or so.'

'Twenty miles? Hah.'

'Indeed.' Henwyn leaned over the arm of his chair to pour more ale, and handed a cup to Edwin. 'You seem to think I'm your enemy.'

'Aren't you?'

'No-one is. Unless it be yourself.'

'You're driving me insane,' said Edwin. 'That seems evidence enough for me.' He knocked back the ale in one draught, and reached for the jug to pour more. Henwyn moved it out of the way. 'Oh, come on! I'm not going anywhere for several days, you might as well let me get drunk!'

'I saw two red and white hounds,' said Henwyn, half to himself, 'and behind them a hunter, dark of hair and eye, under an old oak, its roots soaked in blood. You will not get drunk. Thomas needs you.'

Edwin's skin crawled. 'What?'

'He's in danger.'

'I know he is! The Queen's found him, and...'

'It's not the Queen,' said Henwyn. He unfolded himself from his chair and moved silently to the window. He pulled the shutters closed, though the daylight was not yet faded. The landlord, about to protest he did not have candles to light whilst it was still light, shut his mouth again at Henwyn's scowl.

Edwin beckoned for more hot water and salt. 'Then who, Henwyn? By God, I wish you would just out with it, instead of making me play guessing games! Say what's on your mind. Tell me the truth.'

'Ah, but when did you meet an elf who told the truth?' Henwyn laughed. 'No, no. I don't tell you more because I do not know more. Listen.' He sat down again and leaned towards Edwin, his voice hushed. 'I am of the old tribes. I have...certain gifts that others do not.'

'Like Lord Hart's people?'

'Just so. I am a Dreamer. I can...see things. Not visions. Or portents. But shadows, echoes of what is hatching. It's how I manage to be where I'm needed - as I was in the inn when you and Thomas arrived, as I was outside Hart's castle. But there are places I can no longer go, for the old tribes are outlaws and outcasts, those that are left. If I am seen in Elfland, I will die.'

'Suits me! From the day you turned up, there has been nothing but trouble,' snapped Edwin. 'But go on. You're going to tell me what hunts Tom and how I get him back.'

'No,' said Henwyn. 'I can't. I don't know. But you have to get into Elfland, and I have to find a way to get you in. How am I going to do it? Beats me!'

Edwin sighed. For a brief moment he'd seen what he thought was the real Henwyn, a serious man who wished to help him, or help Thomas at least. But now the Henwyn he knew was back, flippant, blase, and altogether the most annoying person he'd ever met.

He hissed in through his teeth as the landlord tipped more hot salted water into his foot bowl, and wondered if he'd ever see Thomas again.


	14. Chapter 14

Lord Hart sat bolt upright in bed. Cold sweat trickled between his shoulders, but that was nothing compared with the dreadful sensation that something was watching him. He slipped his hand beneath his pillow and pulled out the knife he kept there.

'You'll have to be cleverer than that,' he sneered, flinging back the covers and throwing his free hand high in the same fluid motion. His chamber was immediately illuminated by a bright, pale glow. 'I haven't evaded years of assassins only to be murdered by an amateur like you. Come out.'

He rolled his eyes as a familiar figure, tall and slim, slipped out from the shadows. Even with his hood up, Lord Hart knew Henwyn.

'_You_,' he snapped.

'Me,' said Henwyn. 'So sorry to startle you from your bed in so rude a fashion, but this is important and I couldn't be bothered to wrangle with your guards. Again.'

Hart folded his arms, the knife still dangling from his fingers. 'Speak.'

Henwyn shook his head. 'I have little to say, except that I think it's time for you to take...action. I've sent the lad into Elfland but I question the wisdom of...you know, I think we've made a mistake. Edwin doesn't have what it takes, and Loril's moving faster than I ever thought he would. The Queen keeps Thomas captive. And I don't know what to do.'

'Neither do I,' said Hart irritably. He glared at the elf, grinding his teeth against the temptation to blast him into a furnace. It was little wonder Henwyn had been banished from Elfland. Hart was tempted to banish him from Estragles too - this time on pain of death if he returned.

Henwyn said nothing, merely stood beneath the miniature moon of Hart's making and counted the seconds inside his hood. After a few moments a jaunty whistle emerged from the hood, and Hart's temper snapped. The moon hurled itself against the wall and shattered into fragments of diamond.

'You know what will happen to me if I go into Elfland!' he thundered. 'You _know_, and yet you come here and ask anyway!'

Henywn shrugged. 'I'm not asking. I just thought you'd like to know how close we are to losing. You're in this up to your eyeballs, as we all are, and no longer can you just sit back, put your damned lazy feet up and pretend everything will be fine!'

'Then you're coming with me. If nothing else, I'll relish the opportunity to throw you to the lions.'

'Or griffins, or wyverns, or manticores,' agreed Henwyn cheerfully. 'Yes, I know. Get your cloak. We go _now_.'

* * *

In the cave, Loril handed the light to Darach, his hands carefully cupped around the pale orb.

'Close your eyes and concentrate on keeping the light,' he said. 'Think you can do that?'

'How should I know? I've never used magic,' said Darach with a frown, but he took the light anyway and cupped his hands around it. He closed his eyes. 'Why do_ I _have to hold it?'

'Because I can't do two things at once,' said Loril. He'd been looking over the cave wall, looking for footholds. He could just about make out the tiny opening above him, but to get up there he needed something to stand on. 'On your hands and knees,' he said, gesturing at the floor. Darach's eyes widened.

'What? Now, come on...'

'Now!' snapped Loril, unused to being disobeyed. It was not normally so hard to get people to obey his orders. Darach was a pain in the behind, but though Loril wanted to wring the gardener's neck, he needed him. 'Darach, look, I need to get up there. I can't. I need something to stand on, just for a moment. So, get on your hands and knees and I'll...'

'Use me as a step-stone,' finished Darach with a growl. 'Do you want me to hold the light, or pretend to be furniture?'

'Both.'

'I can't do two things at once, either.'

_Stubborn son of a...!_ 'Please,' Loril begged.

Darach rolled his eyes. 'Alright,' he groaned, 'but this is the only time I'm allowing you to stand on me, prince or not.' He sank to his knees, and one hand, balancing the light in the other. 'Make it quick. This is demeaning.'

Loril hopped up, laughing a little, and reached into the opening. Cobwebs, dust, a few loose stones_...ah_. His breath caught as he felt the edge of the parchment, fragile and dry with the dust of years. Carefully, barely daring to breathe, he eased the scroll down from the ledge, and stepped from Darch's back.

'You can get up now,' he said absently.

'What's that?' Darach rose and eyed the parchment suspiciously. 'A treasure map?' But his laugh sounded false even in his ears, and it echoed round the cave like the howls of a mad beast. He shivered, though it wasn't cold.

Loril shook his head. 'No. It's the chronicles of Adharan of Albion.' He eased the scroll into the stiff canvas roll he'd brought, and tucked it into his tunic. 'Here is the history of the Kings of Albion, and our history too, when we lived in the lands around Albion.'

'Before we were banished.'

'Yes.'

'And what do you hope to learn, sire?'

But Loril, frowning, did not answer.

They took the long way back, avoiding the main path through the wood in favour of a winding little rabbit track. Loril didn't want to go back, that much was plain to Darach, though he didn't ask why. Even the hounds were silent, padding along behind them with their noses to the earth, ears pricked and alert.

'You shouldn't be seen with me,' said Loril, when they reached the edge of the forest. He nodded his head in the direction of the castle. '_She_ will be watching.'

'Fair enough,' said Darach. 'I'll wait. Are you going to let me see that scroll?'

'What good will it do you?'

'I'm curious, is all. Can I see it?'

Loril sighed. 'Wait here until I'm out of sight, then go round by the bowers.' He clicked his tongue at the hounds to follow him, and started down the path, the scroll outlined against him under his tunic.

Darach's nostrils flared, and he muttered a brief incantation under his breath.


	15. Chapter 15

Loril ground his teeth and seethed. Beside him, his wife's eyes were round as saucers as she watched her husband dip his hose in the tub of hot suds and rather ineffectually swish them about.

'But what are you _doing_?' she wanted to know. It was the third time she'd asked. Loril resisted the urge to dunk her too.

'Washing my hose,' he snarled, and followed the snarl with a vicious splashing.

'But why?'

He whirled on her. 'Because the damn dogs cocked their legs against mine! What's it to you anyway? Get out of the way.'

To his surprise, Alena laughed. 'I meant,' she gasped, 'why are _you _washing them and not the laundresses? We do have them here, you know.'

'I didn't want anyone to find out,' he mutttered, turning back to the tub with his face flaming. 'I don't fancy being the laughing stock of your servants.'

Alena sighed, elbowed him out of the way, and took over the task, heedless of the marks the hot soapy water made on her silk dress. The way she pummeled his hose left him in no doubt who'd win if it ever came to a fight between them. And to his annoyance, he could feel the bubblings of mirth in his chest. If he wasn't careful, he'd laugh, and ruin his bad mood.

'I have my suspicions about that gardener,' he said, to stay the laughter. 'My dogs have never pissed on me before. He knows magic, mark my words. And if he can cause...'

'Here,' said Alena, thrusting an armful of sodden fabric into his arms. 'You can wring them yourself, then go hang them on a bush. Mind it has no thorns or they'll tear.'

'Did you hear? I said, I think the gardener knows magic!'

But Alena had already tuned him out, her thoughts on the embroidery she'd been working on before he'd come in. He recognised the look in her eyes. It meant_ I do not see you. You are not here._

Sometimes, he wondered about that.

* * *

'You deserved it,' said Darach, when Loril finally found him and laid the charge of malicious magic at his door. 'Serves you well for denying me a peek at history. Which is mine as well as yours.'

'You ruined a good pair of hose.'

'So get a new pair? And what has that got to do with me anyway? I have no interest in your hose.' Darach paused, took stock of his lord's expression, and remembered his manners. 'My lord,' he added prudently.

Loril sniffed. 'I should punish you.'

'An empty threat I would guess, since you have never followed through on previous ones.'

Loril opened his mouth to make a smart retort, but stopped short as he realised they were no longer alone.

'Who are you?' He looked the newcomer up and down, frowning at the man's rich attire. He had an air of self-assurance, tempered from arrogance by the softness of his visage and the insecurity in his eyes. Or was it fear? Loril wondered. He'd never seen the man before. 'Should I know you?'

'I wonder how you could, since we have never met,' said the stranger. 'I find myself in a maze here. Your gardens are so rambling.' He gave a little laugh, nervous and false, and once again his eyes darted here and there, as if on the lookout for some pursuit. 'Can you direct me to the woodland path, my lord?'

Darach stepped forward. 'I can take you there,' he offered. 'It isn't far. Follow me.'

Loril watched in bewilderment as the stranger and the gardener disappeared from view around a tall rose arbour, heading straight for the path he'd come down earlier with Adharan's scroll bumping his leg at every step.

He was just about to follow when he heard the trickle of liquid and felt something warm and wet against his leg.

Swearing, and fuming, he cast the incantation, and from the ground where two red-and-white hounds had been rose two sturdy speckled hawks, the scent of blood in their nostrils and the wind in their feathers.

_And let _that_ be a lesson to _you_! _Loril let the sneer cross his lips, and then it was gone, replaced with something sly and secretive.

* * *

The gates loomed ahead of Hart, and he paused, his blood hammering in his ears. This would be the first time he'd set foot in Elfland since...

..._but I won't think of that,_ he vowed. What mattered now was that the boy Thomas was freed. He didn't have a clue how he was going to manage it. The Queen would sniff his presence within moments of him entering, and once she had a scent, she ran her quarry to ground. There was only one thing that would give them a chance.

He turned and inspected the bait Henwyn had brought.

'Sir Edwin, is it?' he said. 'You never told me you were a knight. Who was your lord?'

'Sir Josce,' said Edwin, knowing that wouldn't be received well at all.

Hart gave a mirthless laugh. 'Ah,' he smiled, 'I knew he would be back to haunt me. And here you are, and I was right. What is Thomas to you?'

Edwin's face flushed scarlet, and Hart could see the shame in his eyes. He tucked a long slender finger under Edwin's chin and raised his head. 'Come, tell me,' he said. 'I know the spell that...ah, _what_?' He broke off as Henwyn elbowed him in the ribs.

Henwyn smiled. 'The boy is in love with him.'

Edwin gasped. 'My lord, I...'

'It doesn't matter,' Hart said, waving the notion aside. 'You're his only chance, no matter what is between you. I think, if it comes down to it, that you may be the one to...'

'You're rambling,' said Henwyn. 'Nearly as bad as me. Shall we go? We've only got a few more hours of moonlight, and I don't want his resolve failing.' He hefted hs pack, gave Hart a small smile, and stepped into the mist that had been crawling about their ankles, vanishing from sight.

Hart grasped a handful of Edwin's jerkin. 'After you,' he said, and flung the young knight after Henwyn.

Above him, the stars winked out, and a soft line of hazy rose crept over the horizon. Henwyn was right, they had only an hour or so left. And Hart knew what terrors the land beyond the mists could hold for those who had been banished. He had never thought to break his exile and return, but now...

Now, it couldn't be helped. His crown was at stake here, and the life of the one upon whose head that crown would sit. He took a deep breath, and stepped into the mists.


	16. Chapter 16

Darach turned at the edge of the woods and flung his companion onto a rabbit track, where the ferns grew high and concealed them from view.

'I know who you are,' he said, 'and you'll be missed already. Change clothes with me and go on until you reach a waterfall. Inside is a cave. Go through to the back, and I'll join you when I can.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Lay them a false trail,' said Darach. He looked up, apprehension clouding his eyes. The forest was quiet. _Too_ quiet. 'It's not safe,' he continued, turning back to Thomas. 'Hurry!'

Thomas shrugged off the deep red cote he wore, its borders embroidered gold and silver. It wasn't his; a servant had brought it to him, quaking in his boots for fear of discovery. He'd never had anything so fine.

_Not all her people are hers._

He looked at the gardener as he stepped out of his hose and pulled on Darach's soft leather trousers and woolen jerkin, belting it tight. He was taller than the elf, but just as slender. If the hunters were not looking too closely, they would easily pass for one another.

'Your hair,' said Darach. He handed Thomas a soft silk kercheif. 'Bind it up. It gives you away, Thomas.'

'If those hounds have my scent, it won't matter,' said Thomas, but he bound his hair anyway. 'Whose side is he on anyway?'

'His own,' said Darach grimly. 'And he has the only true proof of who you really are. I have to get that back - you have to get as far away from here as possible. They won't kill you; they'll enslave you, and that is worse than death, to be a prisoner here.'

'I'm sure it is.' Thomas shuddered, knowing first hand the kinds of punishments the Queen was wont to dish out. She enslaved not only the body, but the soul as well. No man would ever find peace whilst under her spell. He held out his hand to the elf. 'Thank you. I wish you well.'

Darach grinned. 'You say that as if it's the last you're going to see of me. I won't be long; I've done this before.' He clasped Thomas' hand briefly, and was gone, the bright cote a beacon in the forest green.

Thomas watched him until the red disappeared, and then turned in the direction Darach had sent him in. Underneath his feet he felt not the crunch of bones or the sticky spurt of blood, but soft, moist green earth, dead leaves of ages past, and the scent of the forest was thick in his nostrils. Either the Queen was still a way away yet, or she had no influence here.

_But then who does, if not her?_

He shook his head with a sigh, and hurried on, mindful of what would hunt him when he was missed, and hoped Darach would be able to draw them off and get free.

He thought about Loril as he walked. Darach had said that Loril had the only proof of who Thomas was, but Thomas wasn't sure if he even knew that himself. He'd been cast out, flung into service to a man who was his father's enemy, and now he was on the run from a Queen, a stranger in a land he didn't know.

_Henwyn._

The name came into his mind and he stopped short, his breath exploding from his body in an outraged puff. _He must know! Henwyn knows, he knows who I am, he brought me here, and...so where is he?_

_And Edwin. Oh, I miss him, and I swore I never would! _

He sent up a silent apology to whichever god was listening, that he'd ever wished Edwin away.

Around him, in the trees, there was no sound except the shrill cry of a hunting bird on the wing.

And then another, full of rage and triumph. They'd scented blood; Thomas knew the sound, for he knew birds well having learned in service to Sir Josce.

He ran.

* * *

Loril looked up as the Queen entered his private chambers without knocking. He'd spent the last hour wishing he'd never been born, as soon as he'd found out that he'd let the Queen's prisoner slip through his fingers. And when he'd found out who that prisoner was, he'd wanted more than ever to be as far from her as possible. Only it wasn't possible. She'd find him, if she wanted to. She'd hunt him down and carve out his eyes and feed them to her crows.

'So he's gone, and you don't know where?' The Queen spat the words at Loril, fury sparking fire in her eyes. She was keeping a tight rein on her temper, he knew, but at some point it would break, and he'd die. He had to talk fast.

'I would have known him, mother, had you allowed us to meet,' he said levelly, 'but you were too afraid we'd know each other. You were too afraid my loyalty would be to him and not your daughter - not to you. So when he appeared in the garden, no, I didn't know him. How could I? He looked to me as just another man of your court.'

'And you did not think to ask him who he was?' Her tone was acid, and he winced.

'I couldn't care less who the members of your stinking, corrupted court are,' he snarled, the words out before he could control himself. She looked as if she'd been slapped, but rallied well, and raising her hand uttered a harsh incantation.

'No! _Ní bheidh tú é seo a dhéanamh, ní bheidh mé in iúl duit !_' Loril howled, using the ancient language of his people. _'Streic i chi fud!'_

It was a powerful spell, and he'd learned it from Adharan's Chronicle. It was the first thing he'd learned, and the best in his opinion, for it was a mute spell, and meant that its victim could not speak to cast against him.

The Queen gaped, her mouth opening and closing like a stricken fish, but she could make no sound. Her hands clawed at her throat in despair, her eyes black with rage, but it was no use, Loril's spell held fast. He stepped close to her and took her by the throat.

'You're a rancid bitch,' he said coldly. 'I'm polluted by the air you breathe out, my eyes sting when I look at you, my ears bleed when you speak. I've had enough of your games, and I've had enough of watching you tear apart our land and people, the old ways, the pld magic. It's time for you to die, and time for _me _to be king.'

Afterwards, he sat in the window with his head in his hands. Nothing had changed, at least not in appearance.

_But I'm a fool to think it would be so easy. The Morrigan can't be killed._

At his feet the Queen lay in her own blood, her true form showing in death what she'd hidden in life. Gone was the silky golden hair, replaced by ragged black feathers. Her fingers, once slender and white, were in death the rigid, age-gnarled claws of a crone.

_Crow-queen. Maccha, queen of Crows. Dead in her own blood, silenced at last by the man she could never defeat. What else did Adharan know that I don't?_

Loril spat, his aim her eye, and true. His mouth twitched at the corners, a grim smile that held no mirth, and raised his boot.

He brought it down on her skull, and felt the crunch of bones beneath his feet.


	17. Chapter 17

The network of caves was bigger than Thomas had ever imagined caves could be. He suspected part of it was illusion, a feeling borne out by the prickling along his spine, though every time he turned, there was nothing there. Nothing but the _drip-drip_ of water through the rock, forming the spectacular stalacmites that shot upward from the stony floor. They looked like swords in the gloom, gleaming dully in the peculiar half-light that seemed to have no source but came from within them.

He took off Darach's tunic and rolled it up, placing it under his head as a pillow and lying back. Sleep seemed a thousand years ago. His eyes closed, and he wondered how he'd kept them open for so long. Behind his lids the swords glowed, edges sharp, hilts of crystal sparkling in the deep cave-light.

He remembered a legend. Not that he'd ever been told of such a thing, but deep inside him was the knowledge.

There had once been a sword.

He dreamed.

_Across the moor the two armies faced each other, the sky smoke and gold above them, the land storm and copper beneath their feet. A driving rain harried them, got between the chinks in armour and resolve alike. It blew in from the sea, the same storm that had blown in the sea-demons ten years before. From one force a man stepped forward, his helmet beneath his arm and his hair flaming deep copper in the violent storm-light. His opponent met him, his hair dark, though this was no warrior. He wore no armour, carried no weapons. But one of his eyes was the deep blue of a summer sea, and the other was..._

...Thomas gasped, shocked into wakefulness. _One gold eye. _Now that was a legend he _did_ know.

'You're awake then,' said Darach's voice somewhere in the darkness, and Thomas shook the last of the dream from his mind.

'You took your time,' he said, scrambling to his feet. 'Where have you been?'

'I was detained, for a time.' Darach handed Thomas a large roll of bread and an apple. 'Loril had some questions he wanted answering. So I stayed to answer them.'

'Good gods, you haven't told him about me?'

'What? No! No, he killed the Queen, and wanted to know what that means. I told him it means she's dead.'

Thomas tore a hunk off the roll and stuffed it into his mouth. If Loril had questions, so did he, but if that was Darach's idea of an answer he wasn't sure it was worth the breath spent in asking. But if the bitch was dead, then why was he crouched in a cold, miserable cave with only a mysterious elf for company, and dubious company at that.

'Can I trust you?' he asked.

'_Now_ you ask?'

Thomas shrugged. 'Humour me.'

'Then yes, you can trust me. Though I'm hardly likely to say otherwise.' Darach pulled out several rashers of bacon from his pack and looked round. 'Firewood,' he muttered, and hurried outside.

Thomas followed, blinking in the sudden sunlight. 'Tell me something,' he said, trailing after the elf as he gathered dry kindling, 'why am I so important here? What do you know that I don't?'

* * *

Loril turned page after page of Adharan's chronicles. The man had been an erratic chronicler, and not particularly bothered about the chronological sequence of events either, from the looks of things. Loril seriously doubted that Adharan had kept the chronicle out of duty to history, but rather it read more as a personal diary. Accounts of several battles vied for space on the parchment with court anecdotes and retellings of old tales. Jokes and descriptions of a particular lady's silk undergarments meandered about the pages, along with Adharan's frequent dreams about her, without the undergarments. There was even a sheep tally, and court accounts scribbled in the margin. Two gold pieces for a new horse. Seven for a shipment of Norscan pine. Half a silver penny for his daughter's new silk ribbons. One crown for a vat of good sweet wine for a wedding. It didn't say whose, and from that Loril surmised that Adharan had cared more about the cost of the wine than the happiness of the pair whose wedding it was.

And here and there among the acerbic comments, half truths and song lyrics, was the history. Loril read it avidly, with puzzlement and excitement, and frustration when the bard deviated again, until he'd turned the last page. Now, Adharan's writing was scrawled and sloppy, as if he'd been in a hurry, no longer really caring what he wrote.

_It's sunset, and on the last day of these bloody times. The old times. Some are jubilant we've agreed terms of peace - most, really, but after all, I know nothing of peace. How do I feel? I can't say. All I know is that Albion will never be the same. Gwyn has called his people, the Tylwyth Teg, home to that land we call Annwn through the mists. Those dark warriors of magic and mystery, the Ellyllon, have gone into the hills. The Tuatha have taken Erin as their own, having defeated the Fomorri, and here...well I've done what I had to. Caillea is Queen. Lyonysse and Albion are united, and peace reigns. I have no place here, not any more, my work is done and I'm tired. Tomorrow, I go to the Isle of Apples one last time, and I'll raise the mists..._

Here, Adharan finished. Loril swore. The bard made no mention of the sword he'd spent most of his life defending, Nuada's great sword of light, the sword wielded by Albion's champions for centuries. It had been lost with the bard.

Gone into the mists?

Loril didn't think so. If it had, it would have shown up by now. He rolled up the parchment, and looked down at the body of the Queen.

'What did you know that I don't?' Adharan had mentioned Maccha several times in his chronicle, usually spending several sentences swearing every time her name came up. How was it they'd lived in the same land, side by side, with neither one killing the other? Unless...

Loril flung open the door. 'Alena!'

* * *

'Adharan was the first Merlin,' said Darach as he crouched over his fledging fire, nursing a flame into life. 'The title was created for him, by Caillea, the Queen of Lyonysse and Albion. It's said it was to keep him quiet about the affair they had, but he was also one of the greatest bards the land had ever known. He knew magic, too.'

'So.' said Thomas, then hesitated. He knew nothing of magic, other than what he'd endured at the hands of the Queen. He _thought_ that one had to have elven blood to perform magic. 'He was an elf?'

'Ha, no, just clever.' Satisfied that the fire was strong enough to cope by itself, Darach reached for a pan and scraped a sliver of butter into it. 'At least, I guess he was. You don't survive the Fomorri wars, not to mention serving several rulers of several lands - at once - without being clever. Hmmmm. You know who his grandson was?'

'No.' Thomas stifled a yawn. History wasn't his strong point. Food was, and the smells emanating from the pan were distracting to say the least. 'Go on, tell me then. You're going to whether I want to know or not.'

Darach grinned. 'Merlin Emerys, of course,' he said, with the air of a stealth-archer unleashing a volley of arrows. '_The _Merlin, advisor to Arthur of Camelot.'

Thomas stared. 'But those are just names in books!'

'And where do you think names in books come from, Thomas of Albion?' Darach sat back on his haunches. 'A few days ago, what would you have said if someone had told you you could step through the mists into Elfland?'

'Someone did,' growled Thomas. He rose, fingering the knife he'd shoved into his belt. 'His name is Henwyn.'


	18. Chapter 18

_Ride on, my gallant huntsman. When must I come again?_  
_Oh, never shall you want for a fox to chase all over the glen._

Henwyn paused, one boot raised. He looked down, and one brow shot up. He put his foot down. No blood, no bones. Only turf, and chalk.

'_Well_,' he said.

Beside him, Lord Hart had crouched and was running his hand lightly over the short-cropped green turf, tipped with gold from the setting sun.

'I never thought I'd see the day,' he said, straightening again. 'I never thought I'd return to _this_.'

'Ah,' said Henwyn, 'if you're being truthful, you never thought you'd return at all.'

Hart shrugged. 'The Crow falls, then.'

Henwyn's eyes, far-seeing and cold, swept over the horizon. If he'd feared it, he didn't now. He felt Hart step close to him, and he raised his head. Every muscle was tensed, each sinew stretched taut. For years he'd avoided this, but the hunter, he knew, would one day become the hunted, whether he liked it or not. And now he was run to ground. No more dodging, no more hiding.

His heightened senses heard, in every bone, the soft scything of steel against silk. He reached his hands to his collar and pulled aside his hair, baring his neck.

'So strike,' he said. 'Make it quick, and clean.'

The Crow had fallen, and the Fox had to follow.

Lord Hart struck.

* * *

Thomas shivered in the caves, alone, listening to the storm howling through the wood. He'd never heard anything like it, and in truth it frightened him. The wind roared, and the grey downpour thrummed incessantly on the forest floor. It had begun two hours before, not long after Darach had left again.

Thomas wiped irritably at the droplet of water hanging off the end of his nose, and sniffed, drawing his cloak closer about him. Though he still wore woodsman's garb, he'd insisted on snatching back the fine cloak he's left the castle in. It was warm, at least, and he needed that.

Outside, the storm intensified. On the rhythm of rain, a song came to Thomas' aching head, one that he'd heard several seasons ago in Sir Josce's hall.

_And the men looked up in wonder, and the hounds run back to hide_

_For the fox had changed to the devil himself as he stood on the other side..._

Thomas shook his head. It was one thing to lie low when necessity dictated, but this was _hiding_. And what he hid from had gone, dead at the hands of Loril, a man he'd met only briefly and knew nothing of.

He stood up, wriggled his feet in his soft boots, and drew his hood over his head, tucking stray strands of dark hair behind his ears as he did so. He thought of Edwin, closed his eyes, and took a step forward.


	19. Chapter 19

He found himself in the very tavern he and Edwin had met Henwyn in. It seemed so long ago, but Thomas knew it could not be more than a few days, a week, maybe.

_Maybe a month. I don't know._

'_Thomas_! Holy hell, man, I thought...' Thomas almost choked as he found himself in Edwin's embrace, crushed close against the knight's chest. Half laughing, half spluttering with fury, he pushed away. Thinking about Edwin's arms was a lot easier than actually being in them. He took a furtive look round, and relaxed when he saw they were the only ones in the tavern.

'I thought of you, and here I am,' he said. 'Although why it worked then and not the other fifty times, I don't know. _Thanks_ for not coming to my rescue.'

'Why, Tom, you're surely not playing the damsel-in-distress card?' Edwin looked offended, and shoved his thumbs in his belt. His hair had grown, touching his shoulders now, and in dire need of a comb. Thomas feathered his fingertips over the soft ruddy-gold stubble on Edwin's chin.

Edwin slapped his hand away. 'Whatever is going on, Tom, I don't think I want a part of it. You've been gone for months, I cannot show my face in any company of knights or ladies without insults and mockery - and worse - and even the gold Lord Hart gave me to betray you to the Queen has almost run dry. Because that's what I did, isn't it, Tom? I betrayed you. For what it's worth, I regret it.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Thomas. He was surprised to find he didn't care that Edwin had attempted to betray him. He didn't care about anything. Except one small thing. The smell of sausages pervaded the room, and his stomach rumbled. 'Have you got a penny?'

'I have several - shoved up my arse,' snarled Edwin. He took Thomas by the shoulders and shook him. 'Look what you've done to me! Months in the pit of life, crawling on my belly to get what I can where I can, and you come home_ finally_ and want nothing more from me than a penny for some stew!'

'I am your squire, and it is your duty to feed me,' said Thomas stubbornly. He felt wretched, knowing he was hurting Edwin, but he'd come for a knight - a warrior; not a lover. That would have to wait. They had work to do, and it was best done with only business between them. 'Give me a penny, if you have it.'

Edwin, cursing, fished in his pouch for a coin and flung it at Thomas' feet. It spun, a small silver disc, before settling in the dirt and dust of the inn floor. In Thomas' head, a memory spun along with it, and then was gone, a flash of silver elusive and mysterious like fish in a brook. He retrieved the coin, and went to get his sausages. Food in Elfland had a way of assuaging the hunger of the body but not the soul - one could have eaten all the game birds in the wood and still felt empty. He took a bite, savouring pork juices and onion gravy, and swallowed with a grin.

Edwin watched with sorrow in his eyes. He looked as if he had not slept since Candlemass, and his cheeks were hollow. Thomas regretted the penny, but vowed to pay it back as soon as he could. For now, he need Edwin's help. They had work to do.

_But so help me, I don't know what work that is! _

Another bite of sausage forced the scream of despair down, and the grin stayed fixed on his lips as he ate.

'Edwin,' he said hoarsely. 'For the love of the gods go and shave! Find some clean clothes. Dress like a knight. I need your help.'

'Of course you do,' snapped Edwin, but he turned to go nonetheless. 'I presume I need my sword too?'

'Everything you have,' said Thomas. He washed the last of his sausage down with a long draught of ale. 'I have no idea what we're going to do, but I'm going to get you into Elfland...and...' He paused. He still had no idea what he was going to do.

'Find Henwyn,' said Edwin musingly. He looked at Thomas. 'I presume that's where he is. I haven't seen him round here for several weeks. If we find him...'

Thomas nodded. He'd toyed with the idea that whatever was going on, it was being manipulated by Henwyn, but what he really wanted to do was get hold of the elf so he could strangle him.

_And Henwyn knows what my birthright is. He's damn well going to tell me, or..._

'You're welcome, by the way.' Edwin's voice cut through the thought.

'What?'

'For the sausages. That was my last penny. Whoever you are, Fair Thomas, I hope you've got a plan to get us some more.'

Thomas laughed, and bowed. 'Thank you, you filthy rogue, for the gift of the finest sausages in Albion. Now go and wash!'


End file.
